Look Mummy, No Hands
by knowregrets
Summary: Lily's thoughts on being a mother to baby Harry. idea inspired by a Fascinating Aida song. Oneshot


**A/N:**

The usual disclaimer – none of the characters are mine.

This fic is a short one off that was inspired while I was listening to a Fascinating Aida song, which is where the title and one or two of the lines within the story come from. If you have never heard of FA, they are a quirky comedy trio of women of "un certain âge" who write and sing mostly comic songs. They have a wicked sense of humour and are well worth the time listening to. This is from one of their more serious songs; I was browsing HP fan fiction while I was listening and the lyrics of the song just threw this story into my mind straight away. If you are familiar with FA, then can I assure you I don't intend to do a similar story for Shattered Illusions, tempted though I am by the idea of Viktor Krum saying "Call me Betty"!

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Look, Mummy, No Hands**

I watch Harry crawl across the floor, reach the sofa and pull himself up into a standing position. I resist the urge to dash over and grab him as he lets go, stands teetering for a bit and then falls back to a sitting position with a thump. Harry isn't hurt. He's grinning and, with a determined look on his face, is pulling himself up again. But still I can't help it. Every time he tries something new, my heart is in my mouth. I can't stand the thought that he might hurt himself, even doing such a minor thing as this.

Is it normal to be this worried about ordinary things, about him growing up? James took him out on his broomstick the other day and I was so furious I didn't speak to him (James not Harry) for an entire day. Harry loved it.

I see other mothers. Other mothers letting their children wander all over. Hardly, it seems, sparing them a glance as they crawl at lightening speed, as they bash into things and fall over. And yet all I want to do is rush and grab him, pick him up and carry him where he wants to go, keep him safe and protect him from harm. All I want to do is keep him safe.

He's started getting independent – already. He pushes me away and tries to do things himself. Every time he does I feel rejected, alone. What is wrong with me? Or is this normal? Is this how motherhood feels?

James doesn't seem to have this trouble. Like last week when Harry crawled over to the fireplace and threw the floo powder everywhere. Harry was just sitting in the middle of it all, covered head to toe in the horrid stuff, with the fireplace shooting out green flames and the carpets a mess. Harry had looked at us, looked around him and looked back. "Oops!" he said. One of his first words – "oops!" James just laughed. Harry could have been hurt! He could have fallen into the fire and who knows where he would have ended up! James laughed. I went into a complete panic.

I know he has to grow up. I know he has to learn to crawl, to stand, to walk, to fall. I know I have to let him, but …

I remember going to the fairground with my mother. I must have been about four or five. I remember: the merry-go-round, the scarlet and gold whirl of colours, the excitement. I insisted I could do it on my own. It went round and round I was screaming in excitement, I could see my mother standing at the side, her hands to her face, "Hold on tight, hold on tight darling!"

I pretended I couldn't hear her. I lifted my hands from the reins of the shiny horse and waved at her. "Look, Mummy, no hands!" I remember calling out "Look, look!" Me scared stiff, pretending I'm not. The fear was fun, I was laughing like mad, it was an adventure. Her face was tensed in worry – my face does that now every time Harry does anything new.

We are in troubled times. That's my excuse, whenever James has a go at me for being over-protective. Voldemort. But I suspect I'd be like this anyway. How could I not be? He's my baby. I can't stand the thought of him being hurt, even just a little everyday hurt. I want to protect him. Until I became a mother I didn't know what it was to love someone so completely, I would die for him. He was part of me for nine months, I felt him growing inside me. He still feels like part of me.

I remember pushing my mother away. When I was a teenager. I'd get frustrated during the holidays: I'd want to visit my friends from school; she'd want me to spend the time with her. We had little in common any more. I thought. She didn't understand me – she didn't understand my world. But she did. Now I know she did. She understood me well. She just wanted to be a part of my life. But I thought I didn't need her. I didn't know. I was scared and pretending not to be. I was going through all these changes, growing up, becoming magical, discovering boys, discovering James. I couldn't let her see I was afraid, that I didn't know what I was doing. It was scary but exciting at the same time. She wouldn't understand. I pushed her away, I could see the hurt in her eyes and I still pushed her away. How careless we are when we're young.

Every day when James goes out to work I'm worried he won't come back. Before Harry I was worried but I was sharing the risks, I could cope with it better then. Now … oh I know it was my choice. Harry should have one parent safe. We both agreed, for Harry. Now I am worried all the time. And Harry gets the full brunt of it.

Harry falls to the ground again laughing. I just wish … oh this is stupid. I'm a grown woman. I'm a mother. So why am I desperate for my mother to be here? I need her. I miss her. She never got to see her grandson. She never even got to come to my wedding and she had been so excited about it. Her youngest daughter getting married. She loved James, thought he was fantastic. And then … I really wish I believed in religion. I wish I believed she was watching over me in some way but I don't. I've seen too much. Suddenly I'm crying and I don't know why. I cried for her such a long time ago. Cried myself hoarse. Now is different, it's not grief it's … I don't know what it is.

This whole motherhood thing – I feel like I'm making it up as I'm going along. I need someone to tell me, am I doing it right? Am I being a good mother? I just want someone to tell me what to do. Look Mummy, no hands. I'm scared and I'm trying to pretend I'm not and I wish you could be here for me because it isn't fun, scared isn't fun any more. Why couldn't I have appreciated you when I had you? Why do I have to do this alone? Why can't you tell me what to do?

Harry is at my feet, pulling himself upright on my chair, letting go, standing. I can see the laughter in his eyes. He's so happy, so joyful, so completely without worry or fear. I smile back at him and reach down to kiss him on the top of his messy little head. My little boy: growing up. How care less we are when we're young.


End file.
